Come Back to Me
by Believe4Ever
Summary: This is the sequel to my other story "Falling For You", so read that one before you read the other one. - Sherlock has just been shot, and John is upset, afraid that his friend won't pull through. He is begging, pleading, and PRAYING that his friend will live . . . or at least live long enough to hear John's answer to his proposal.
1. Chapter 1

_Sherlock looked around. He was confused. Now this rarely happened. He always had a firm grasp on what was real and correct, what had happened, and what was most likely to be. But at that very moment, he didn't know where he was, why he was there, or even how he had ended up there in the first place._

_The detective once again rubbed his eyes and looked around. He was in a small square room with stucco walls painted a bright magenta. There was brown molding painted a pitch black around the base of the wall, connecting with the wooden floor. The door, in the center of the wall in front of him, was perfectly white with an elegant ebony handle. There weren't any windows on any of the walls, or any decorations of any kind._

_He couldn't deduce a thing._

_There wasn't a single thing he could figure out from this room, other than the fact that whoever had designed this room had really bad taste._

"Come on, Sunshine, do what you always do."

_Lestrade's voice was echoing in his head. Sherlock rubbed his temples. He wanted to deduce, like he always did, but he couldn't!_

_He stood there for a moment longer before making his way over to the door. What would be the chances that the door would be unlocked? Slim to none. If he had been kidnapped, then wouldn't the door be locked? Any sensible kidnapper would lock the door if they left him alone. Yet he hoped that it was open so he could find out where he was located._

_It was unlocked._

_He exited the room, expecting to come face-to-face with a new enemy—maybe his kidnapper, maybe just someone guarding his room—but instead found a forest before him. There were trees that towered high into the sky, pines and oaks with trunks so big around that he couldn't wrap his arms around it to lock his hands together. The sounds of life were eerily silent and all he could hear was the crunching of dead leaves underfoot as he walked out under the low tree branches._

_"What in the world . . .?" Sherlock spun around to find that the room he had just been in was actually a single-room cabin of some kind that someone had built. It was strange, though. Most cabins would have been built out of logs, if it was out in the forest like this. But this one was almost like a miniature house, minus the windows and shingles. "Why am I here?"_

_Shaking his head with confusion, the detective started to wander the forest. What else was he supposed to do? He had checked his pockets three times. His phone wasn't there. Whoever had kidnapped him and took him here obviously wasn't thinking properly, not locking the door, but they were smart in bringing him to a foreign location like this._

_"Sherlock . . ."_

_The detective froze and his skin prickled with . . . fear? Of course, it must be fear. He knew that voice. That voice haunted him constantly. It probably haunted John Watson too. But it couldn't possibly be . . ._

_Sherlock turned slowly and cautiously and stared wide eyed. He gulped when his thoughts were confirmed, but he tried to hide all of his emotion. "Moriarty."_

_The consulting criminal grinned and smoothed out his suit. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"_

_"I see you're still in love with your suit."_

_"Westwood." He grinned wide. "The devil wore Westwood, you know."_

_"I can believe that."_

_Moriarty's grin shrunk into a smug smile. "Come, Sherlock. I have something to show you." He turned and started to leave, waving for Sherlock to follow._

_"And why would I follow?"_

_The enemy glanced back, grinning. "Same reason you followed the cabbie. You're too curious."_

_Sherlock's hands clenched and his teeth gritted, but he followed his enemy anyhow. How could he not? He needed to understand why he had woken up in a cabin in a forest with absolutely no recollection of how he had gotten there. Then there was the obvious he wanted answer . . ._

_"How did you survive?" the detective inquired._

_Jim just laughed and offered no explanation for his miraculous survival. Typical of him to want to keep Sherlock in suspense._

_"Where are we going?" Sherlock questioned._

_"Somewhere special."_

_The detective rolled his eyes and sighed in annoyance. "Where are we, really? Forests aren't exactly in London's backyard."_

_Moriarty turned around and continued walking backwards, somehow managing to avoid crashing into the trees. "We're not near London."_

_After a few minutes, Sherlock asked, "Then where are we?"_

_"You'll see . . ."_

_Sherlock glared. "Moriarty—"_

_"We're here!" The consulting criminal raised his arms in a "Behold!"-like fashion. Sherlock blinked. How did he not realize that they had exited the forest? That they had been walking uphill? That they had been walking the side of a mountain? That they were at . . ._

_The detective peered over the edge. Water was washing over the ledge located high, high above their heads, pounding and thrashing gallons of liquid into the body of water—which was too large to be a lake but too small to be an ocean—far, far below._

_"A waterfall?" Sherlock muttered, glancing over to his enemy._

_"A little more old-fashioned than our last confrontation, don't you think?"_

_Sherlock tried to hide his shutter. He still constantly had nightmares about that day. That horrible, awful day where he was forced to jump off of St. Bartholomew's hospital and ended up putting John through so much torture in the process._

_The detective looked over at his enemy. Moriarty's grin grew wider and eviler while Sherlock's expression simply grew more serious. "What are you planning?" Sherlock whispered._

_"The final solution."_

_Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "What . . . do you mean?"_

_"It's apparent that both of us are not able to live in this world together. We will forever try to finish off the other one." Sherlock gave an uncertain nod. "So . . ."_

_Moriarty surged forward and grabbed Sherlock's throat, twisted around, and slammed the detective against the dirt wall. The criminal leaned his full body weight onto Sherlock's throat. A strangled noise escaped from the detective's lips as he stared at Moriarty's amused face._

_"Feeling a little overwhelmed?" the consulting criminal hissed. Sherlock struggled to push the criminal off of his throat, but to no avail. Moriarty had placed his body just so that he could lean on Sherlock's throat, keep his arms pinned behind his back, and still be just out of kicking distance. "Do you wish your precious John was here?"_

_Sherlock's head was starting to spin and buzz. He was growing tired from the lack of oxygen. But his friend's name barely registered in his mind. "John . . ." the detective gurgled._

_"Sherlock!"_

_The voice was distant and quiet, but he recognized it. The voice was quite obvious his precious blogger's. He struggled to speak._

_"Your sweet pet has come to see you off!" Moriarty giggled. "Say your sweet goodbyes!"_

_The criminal released Sherlock, but before the detective could even take a breath, Moriarty grabbed his collar and hurled him around. Although Sherlock was much taller than his nemesis, he was far too light-headed to fight back. Moriarty gave him one slight, final push and he tumbled over the edge._

_Water slapped in his face and filled his mouth when he tried to shout. He felt like he was falling for an eternity, not taking one single breath. The pain drove into his chest like daggers and his throat was burning. His vision was clouding and depleting. Then came the rough, chilling impact of the water's surface . . ._

_Then nothing._


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: There are some scenes that some people may take as Sherstrade (SherlockxLestrade) but I assure you that this is purely a Johnlock fan fiction. Enjoy!**

The consulting detective had passed out right after the proposal and John had done his best to suppress the bleeding, pressing his palms against the rooms and begging Sherlock to stay with him. Lestrade had arrived five minutes after Sherlock's proposal, finding John crying hysterically with his friend's blood all over his hands and shirt.

An ambulance was waiting outside. Paramedics had rushed in, putting Sherlock onto a gurney and immediately started treating him, all the way to the hospital. They brought him into the hospital at a fast pace, rushing him down a long hallway toward the Emergency Room. John had stayed next to his boyfriend on the ride to the hospital and down the hallway until they told him he had to go back to the waiting room while they performed surgery on Sherlock.

The ex-medic had paced anxiously for a few minutes until a nurse finally asked him if he would go wash his hands and change his shirt. John hadn't noticed that people were giving him strange looks, probably wondering why he, who was dripping in blood, wasn't getting treatment. John obliged and changed into a hospital gown that the nurse had provided. That seemed to make it worse, a man in a hospital gown with slightly-darker-red hands, pacing around like a madman.

Lestrade had stayed with him, just as anxious. It had never really stuck with John that Lestrade actually cared so deeply for Sherlock. John always thought that the Detective Inspector just thought of Sherlock as some kind of asset, not a real person. But the worried expression worn on his face was proof enough that he was wrong.

The surgery seemed to take ages. Lestrade had asked the nurse constantly how he was doing, and John at least three times as often. The nurse's answer was always "We'll know soon."

John had contacted Mrs. Hudson and Molly. They weren't at St. Bartholomew's, where Molly worked, because that hospital was too far away from where they were. Molly had informed John that she was completely swamped with work, but promised to try and get there as soon as she finished. John didn't want Mrs. Hudson to come and make him even more worried, so he told her to stay home and that he'd call her if any news came up. He knew leaving her in suspense was torture, but he didn't think he could handle seeing her troubled face.

Finally word came back that the surgery had been a success and that they had stopped the bleeding and retrieved the bullet safely. They did warn that he lost a lot of blood, so they wanted to keep him under watch. He also hadn't yet awoken since he passed out, which definitely wasn't a good sign. The nurses allowed John and Lestrade to go in and see Sherlock. John let Lestrade go in first, him needing to call Molly and Mrs. Hudson with the good news.

The Detective Inspector walked in, suddenly shocked by the sight of Sherlock. He was in the hospital bed, propped up, but eyes closed like he was fast asleep. He had been stripped of his bloodied clothes and was now wearing a paper hospital gown. His skin, which was usually pale, was almost deathly white. That itself made it apparent that he had lost a lot of blood. An IV was sticking into his arm and the heart monitor beeped next to him.

Lestrade went over to Sherlock and sat down in one of the chairs placed next to the bed. For a second, he just stared at Sherlock in pure amazement. It really was astounding what he would do for his friend—no, his boyfriend. But, then again, he did fake his death and take the plunge for John, Mrs. Hudson, and himself. Sherlock wasn't at all as cold and heartless as he had made himself out to be.

"You look ridiculous in that gown," Lestrade whispered. When the consulting detective didn't move, the DI's head hung. "Come on, Sunshine, do what you always do." His head rose and he gave a pleading look to him. "Give a snappy remark back."

But Sherlock didn't move. His chest rose and fell steadily and his pulse was constant. That was good. But he wasn't awake. Lestrade put his hand on Sherlock' lightly for a moment. Sherlock didn't even flinch.

"Greg?" John said as he entered the room. Lestrade quickly withdrew his hand before John saw.

"Yes?" he answered, looking back at the ex-medic.

"Mrs. Hudson wished Sherlock best of luck and Molly is still really busy. But they said they'd come when they could."

"Good . . . That's good."

John gave a small nod. They sat in silence for a couple minutes, just watching Sherlock as if he would suddenly awake.

"I'd better get going," the DI whispered, standing. "I just needed to make sure my consultant pulled through."

John gave a small smile and a nod as Lestrade left. The ex-medic walked over and took the seat that Lestrade had been sitting in. He opened his mouth to say something when he suddenly saw Sherlock's arm stiffen and goose bumps ripple across his flesh. "Sherlock?"

No answer. But it was strange. It wasn't cold in here. Why would Sherlock's skin suddenly prickle like that?

John took Sherlock's hand and gripped it firmly. "I'm right here," he whispered. "I'm right here, just for you . . ." Tears pricked in his eyes. "Sherlock, please, wake up."

For a couple minutes John just whispered to Sherlock, saying his name, begging him to wake up, or just reminiscing about their dates. He talked about how he was sorry about storming off, how he wanted them to be together . . .

Suddenly the heart monitor gave out a quick pulse. John looked up to see that Sherlock's heart had suddenly become faster and more urgent. "Sherlock . . .?"

His attention turned back to his boyfriend and saw with alarm that it was as if Sherlock was struggling to get a breath. He was twitching and giving small strangled noises. A small word escaped his lips: "John . . ."

"Sherlock!" John cried, gripping his friend's hand even tighter. He yelled for a nurse. He looked back at his friend, eyes wide with worry and his own heart probably quickening with fear. Sherlock continued making gurgles and twitching until—

Suddenly Sherlock went still, his chest no longer moving. The heart monitor suddenly flat-lined and it went blaring with alarms. Once again, John screamed for a nurse.

A few nurses rushed in, immediately taking in the fact that the heart monitor was shrieking and John looked extremely frightened. They gently pushed the ex-medic aside and quickly looked over Sherlock.

John stood in the back, watching them with fretful, concerned eyes. He had to fight the urge to run to Sherlock and start begging him to wake up once again.

_Sherlock, come back to me . . .!_


	3. Chapter 3

_It was dark. Pitch black. But Sherlock wasn't scared. If anything, he was intrigued. He felt as though his body was suspended in the air, no longer needing to abide by the laws of the universe. Or the laws of life._

_He didn't feel hungry or thirsty, hot or cold, not even tired. It was as if he were in eternal peace or something like that._

_Suddenly some light flickered. Once. Twice. Again and again, like a strobe light. Then the light stayed on, blinding and shining so bright that most people would've shrieked, but Sherlock just stared in awe. Was this what all those people described as "going toward the light"? It wasn't exactly him going toward it as it was surrounding him fully. The light warmed him, gave him that fuzzy feeling like when his mother ruffled his hair as a child, and gave him hope. He wanted to stay there forever . . ._

_A sudden zap protruded his body, tingling his nerves and making his body stiff—did he have a body, at this point? The light disappeared and was replaced with the darkness again. Was this a step forward? Or a step back? He couldn't tell, but what he did know was that he didn't need to breathe. Was that bad?_

_Sherlock suddenly found it hard to concentrate. Where was he, exactly? What had happened? Where was . . . where . . ._

_The darkness almost became a type of black hole, quicksand pulling him down. Or was something pulling him in the other direction? It utterly scared Sherlock that he might possibly be being pulled into hell, where fires raged and the devil would be waiting with his golden fiddle._

_Then Sherlock took a breath and he knew he wasn't dead._


	4. Chapter 4

When the nurses took out the defibrillator, John wanted the bawl like a child. The defibrillator was like a last resort, the thing people tried before they were going to give up.

After the first shock, the nurses paused. After what seemed like an eternity—but what was probably just a few seconds—a gasp protruded from the detective's lips and the monitor began to beat.

John let out the breath he'd been holding in relief. The nurses also gave small relieved sighs. They assured John that they'd check with the doctors. As they left, one of the nurses stayed behind, just in case.

"Just precautionary," the nurse assured him, giving a sympathetic smile.

_You don't really care, _John thought bitterly as he turned his head away and back to his boyfriend. _He's just another patient that's wheeled through those double doors up front._

Sherlock stayed in the hospital for three more days. He still didn't wake up. But there weren't any more problems, either. The nurses didn't have to watch him carefully anymore. That didn't mean that John didn't worry constantly, of course. He still went to the hospital every day, staying by Sherlock's bedside through all of the visiting hours.

On the fourth day, John had dozed off next to Sherlock, his head propped up on his hand, which was being upheld by his elbow balancing on the armrest.

Sherlock's foot twitched.

Then his hand twitched.

His fingers slowly curled around the blankets.

His eyes opened slowly. His vision was blurry and he couldn't tell what was happening. Where was he? Where was . . .? What is . . .? How did . . .?

The detective pulled himself up to sit up, his head spinning with dizziness at moving after staying still for so long. He groaned with a lurching nausea that emerged at the back of his throat. John awoke at the noise, rubbing his eyes.

"How's he do—" John suddenly stopped talking when he saw that Sherlock was awake. He suddenly straightened, a smile pushing its way onto his face. "Sherlock, you're awake!"

The detective turned his head toward his boyfriend slowly, still trying to shake away the nausea. "Hwah err oo . . .?"

John couldn't help but giggle a little at his friend's grogginess. "Sorry, what?"

It took a minute, but Sherlock finally gained his senses enough to be able to speak properly. "I said . . . Who are you . . .?"


End file.
